


Books are not here for display

by anne_mmlade



Category: Original Work
Genre: No Plot/Plotless
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-30
Updated: 2016-01-30
Packaged: 2018-05-17 03:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anne_mmlade/pseuds/anne_mmlade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This was originally written in Spanish but a friend of mine dared me to translate it. Even if I am able to fully understand fanfic and such in English, I'm not good at writing in another language. I hope you enjoy this, and please, let me know any grammar or vocabulary mistake you see. From Annie B with love <3</p>
            </blockquote>





	Books are not here for display

The night is cold, and your steps as long as your short height allows. You're young, in your twenties, blonde hair although the roots are dark. You walk along a parallel street to Fuencarral (AN), a Tuesday at seven o'clock, in December. The street is lively, there is people out even though they are heavily clothed. The temperature has dropped this week in Madrid and it is time for the pompom hats. Businesses, however, do not seem very buoyant. A group of friends have dinner in a Japanese restaurant, and a couple hold hands in the pancake house. The bookshop you found a few years ago by chance is closed. You come across a group of Lolita girls, but you are not surprised. After all, you're in Malasaña (AN). To avoid colliding, you abandon the sidewalk and invade the asphalt. You feel car-ish, until a late delivery van brings you back to the previously ignored sidewalk.

The night is cold, and your steps take you to a quieter street. A classmate lived here, you remember, in one of these doors. The pockets are not enough anymore for your hands to be warm. You look for the gloves that rest in the bottom of the leather backpack your mother gifted you yesterday. The wind takes with it some of the smell the leather had, but it never bothered you anyway. Without stopping you struggle to close it again. First, you set the cord, then the first buckle, then the second one. The gloves are purple, and not quite effective. You don't have anything better, they'll have to do. You put them on, return your hands to the pockets and hope it is enough. It is not.

The night is cold, and your steps suddenly stop when a shop window gets your attention. Right now you are in a desert street, completely dark if it weren't for a couple of timid streetlights hanging on the building facades. The stores have been closed for a while. You suspect it have been days, even. Some windows have graffiti or "for rent" signs. A hairdresser sign can be spotted down the street, next to a 24/7 Chinese Shop. The window you are in front of has nothing off, just a couple of mannequins with eccentric wigs, some vintage clothing in the back and graffiti on the metal sheet that hides the shop door. You can see your own reflection in the glass. Nothing off, until you finally discover the red dot that has suddenly appeared in your forehead. A shot later, you lie dead on the sidewalk, a pool of blood growing in the floor.

**Author's Note:**

> Fuencarral is a famous shop street in Madrid, Spain  
> Malasaña is a neighbourhood next to Fuencarral full of vintage, gothic and steampunk shops and such. It is not unusual to see funny dressed people around.
> 
> Please note that this is FICTION, and has no evident plot. There is no chance you get shot walking in Madrid...


End file.
